Professional Ethics
by astroanna
Summary: The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity..." Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "A Study in Scarlet". A young journalism student comes to feel the same curiosity at PPTH...
1. Chapter 1

I never intended to be drawn into the world of medicine. I was trained, and remain, a journalist, a recorder of facts and events. I suppose that's what I'm doing now, but it seems I'm living in a totally different world as well. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

I was referred to Dr. James Wilson when my primary doctor noticed an abnormal growth. I would go on, but that's medical information and privileged, thank you very much. In any event, I couldn't help notice how careful Dr. Wilson was, and how caring. I could tell he was invested in what happened to me, not just as a doctor, but as a human being. It turned out the growth was completely benign, and it seemed Dr. Wilson was even more relieved and pleased than I was.

"Great news," he said as he flipped open my file with a brilliant smile on his face, "you're going to be just fine. No sign of malignancy."

"Oh, wow," I said, releasing a huge sigh of relief, "that's wonderful."

I took a few deep breaths and as I did, I glanced at Dr. Wilson. He was still smiling, but it was his eyes that drew me. They were warm and a deep brown, and were shining with what seemed to be unrestrained contentment.

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson," I said, smiling back at him.

"My pleasure," he replied, his voice as contented as his smile.

A few moments passed before my curiosity got the better of me.

"Dr. Wilson, I-"

Before I could go on, however, his door opened unexpectedly. An older man brazenly made his way into the room. He was taller and, compared to Dr. Wilson, somewhat unkempt. He leaned slightly on a cane, which he spun as his eyes found Dr. Wilson's. As Dr. Wilson looked back at the older man, he closed his eyes momentarily, as if praying for patience.

"House, is there any chance that you can let me finish with this patient before you interrupt my day?" he said, and there was an unusual, hardened, but powerful quality to his voice I hadn't heard before.

"Hmmm," the older man said, as if thinking hard, "don't think so."

"I'm sorry about this," Wilson said quietly to me, but I simply smiled to indicate I wasn't bothered at all.

"It seems Cuddy is on one of her 'crusades' again," said the man, whose name I supposed was House, as he flopped into the couch set against the opposite wall of the office.

"Is she?" Wilson said neutrally, one eyebrow raised, betraying nothing.

"She's actually expecting ten hours of clinic duty from me this week," he said, sighing in apparent exasperation. "She must be stopped."

"Imagine that," Dr. Wilson said, "the Dean of Medicine expecting one of her doctors to do his job." He was clearly admonishing the man, yet there was a distinct note of amusement in his voice as well.

"Uh-uh," said the older doctor as he leaned back, "the road to hell is paved with such expectations. Dr. Gregory House will not be ruled, and nor will any doc while I live."

The last was said with blazing eyes and a bad Scottish accent, clearly recalling one of Mel Gibson's stirring speeches in "Braveheart". I couldn't help but giggle. The blue eyes of Dr. House then turned to me, and he smiled at my appreciation of the joke. Suddenly, something I'd read recently flashed through my mind.

"Wait, Dr. Gregory House," I said slowly, struggling to remember, "the same Gregory House who gave that speech on Viopril? The one that almost sent Edward Vogler into an early grave?"

"See, Wilson," he said to the somewhat bewildered oncologist now sitting in front of me, "a fan of my best work. Thank you," he said, standing and bowing as if a curtain had just come down, "thank you."

"How do you know Dr. House?" Dr. Wilson asked me curiously.

"I'm in my final year of journalism school at NYU," I replied, "and so is my roommate. She was covering the press dinner you gave that speech at."

I turned toward Dr. House.

"She was expecting a standard story, pretty boring stuff. I couldn't believe the story she told me she was running for our paper when she got back."

My hand began moving across the space in front of me to indicate a headline.

"'Rogue Doctor takes on Pharmaceutical Giant.'" I recited, making the older man positively beam.

"Please stop," Dr. Wilson said, shaking his head slightly at me, "before his head swells to parade balloon proportions."

I smiled at Dr. Wilson, but nodded in agreement nevertheless.

"I think I'll contact NYU," House said suddenly, nodding and moving towards the door.

"You're going to ask for a copy of the article, aren't you?" Dr. Wilson said resignedly.

"Please," House said nonchalantly, "what kind of egomaniac do you think I am?"

"Get me a copy, too," Wilson called as House made his way out of the office.

"Will do," House's voice came back.

"I'm sorry about that," Dr. Wilson said, returning at once to his professional demeanor, "are there any other questions I can answer?"

"No, that's all right," I said, "but does he usually do that? Barge in on you while you're with patients?"

"I'm so sorry," he said apologetically, "that was a completely inappropriate interruption-"

"I'm not mad," I said reassuringly, "I was just wondering."

Wilson looked at me oddly for a moment. Quickly I tried to explain.

"Idle and total curiosity," I said, shrugging self-deprecatingly, "it comes with the job description."

"Fair enough," he said, smiling, "yes, he does do that all the time. It's maddening, but it…comes with the job description," he continued, extending a hand toward me gracefully.

"What job description?" I asked, not quite understanding.

Dr. Wilson took a deep breath, and a sudden closed-off expression came over his face. It seemed there was a well of emotion there he was doing his best to conceal.

"Best friend," he said quietly, his head bowed over his desk slightly, avoiding my eyes.

Suddenly he seemed to snap out of his reverie, and was his usual self, but now I was more curious than ever. There was something to this man, and both my journalistic interest and what I had just witnessed between the two doctors was screaming to know what it was.

"Well thanks again for everything, Dr. Wilson," I said, standing up, and glancing at the edge of his desk where a stack of business cards was sitting. "Do you mind if I take your card?"

"Of course," Dr. Wilson said, "call me if you have any other questions."

"Thanks," I said, making my way out of the brightly lit office. Before I left the hospital I took one last look through the glass window at the man who had been my doctor. He was reading through a chart intently, and seemed bowed with a weight beyond an ordinary head of oncology. From that moment on I knew what my next story had to be. The quiet best friend of the brilliant Dr. Gregory House.


	2. Chapter 2

I spent the next few days wondering how best to proceed. The first step would be the same as every other story I'd ever done. Do the homework. So in the time I had between classes I looked up the name of Dr. James Wilson anywhere I could find it. It wasn't very difficult to find, either. All it really took was reading the most esteemed and respected medical and oncology journals in publication. I couldn't help noticing something, however, with every article I'd read.

Alongside Dr. James Wilson's name was inevitably, claimed as a co-author or associate, the name of Dr. Gregory House. Yet when I would call the publisher or other researchers also named in the articles, not one of them had mentioned Dr. House. When I would ask what his role in the study was, the person on the other end of the line would inevitably, in a polite but puzzled tone, ask what I was talking about.

I was more determined than ever to find out more about this oncologist. Pulling out his business card, I called his office number. The voice mail kicked in after several rings, and I left a deliberately vague message.

"Hi, Dr. Wilson, it's Emma Barton. If you could call me back I'd really appreciate it."

I left my number and flipped my cell phone closed. Taking a deep breath, I could not help but feel a small smile spread across my face. It was the thrill of the journalistic chase thrumming through me again, that feeling I'd become almost addicted to since I was a child. Still, I settled in to wait and be patient, since it was a Friday evening, and I didn't expect a response until the following Monday.

Imagine my surprise, then, when the very next morning my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Emma? It's Dr. Wilson."

"Dr. Wilson," I said in surprise, "I wasn't expecting you to get back to me until Monday."

"I hope I'm not bothering you," he said, "but if you had any concerns about your test results I didn't want to wait."

I was silent for a moment, quite frankly stunned. This wasn't just a doctor keeping up with his patients. This was a doctor who genuinely cared. Finding my voice again, I replied, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.

"No, you're not bothering me at all. I-"

Suddenly I faltered. I wanted to be able to keep a line of communication open with Dr. Wilson, but didn't want to keep him believing I only had medical related questions.

"Emma?" came the earnest voice in my ear, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just…I'm not quite sure how to ask what I want to ask."

"Would you like to meet at my office later?"

"Sure," I said slowly.

We decided on a time later that day, and as I closed my phone again I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. This good doctor believed I was a worried patient and the only thing wrong with me was that I was a journalism student who hadn't yet found her big story.

"I appreciate your meeting me on a Saturday, Dr. Wilson," I said as I sat down in front of his desk.

"No problem at all," he said, beginning to pull my chart from the stack organized on top of his desk.

"Ummm…" I said, closing my eyes for a moment in agitation, "don't bother with my chart."

"What?" Dr. Wilson said curiously, "why not?"

"I-" I blew out a breath, feeling more guilty than ever. "I don't really have a question about my test results," I blurted out in a rush, watching Dr. Wilson for his reaction.

It seemed he was waiting, and taking his time, to react at all. Slowly he placed his hands carefully on the desk in front of him, looking at me intently.

"Okay," he said quietly, his face neutral, "what can I do for you, then, Emma?"

His careful, formal way of speaking to me was worse than yelling would have been. It was like being called out by a respected teacher for cheating.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson," I said quickly, "I know how valuable your time is, and I don't want to waste it-"

"Emma," he said, his strong voice cutting across me, "I'm off today. You're not wasting my time or taking it away from another patient. But I need you to be straight with me."

I nodded, properly chastened. He was right, of course. Several moments passed in silence while I gathered my thoughts.

"I guess I should have told you this over the phone," I said, unable to meet his eyes, "but…well I told you I'm a journalism student."

"Right…" he said, prompting me to continue.

"You're so different from any other doctor I've ever come across. And your best friend is Dr. House," I said, smiling despite myself.

"Well, that is different, I'll give you that," Dr. Wilson said.

"I guess I just wanted to know," I finished, somewhat lamely.

"Know what?" Dr. Wilson asked.

"Okay, for example, you put Dr. House's name on all your articles, but he doesn't seem to have actually helped you on any of them. He barges in on you unexpectedly, apparently tries to avoid his own clinic duties, and is egotistical enough to want a copy of an article that praises him, even if it is from a university paper. You're his best friend, but you're so different from him. I don't get it, so I have to know more about it."

Dr. Wilson leaned back, looking at me carefully. Several long moments passed in silence. Finally, slowly, a smile spread across Dr. Wilson's face.

"You just have to know, huh?" he said, shaking his head in apparent amusement. "You kind of remind me of someone, Emma," he went on quietly, more to himself than to me.

Standing up suddenly, he motioned for me to do the same.

"Come on," he said, "I'll buy you a cup of coffee. If we don't have to talk doctor-patient business we might as well be a little more relaxed."

I couldn't help but grin as I followed him out of his office.


End file.
